


walk into walls and lay awake

by 17826



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: (between the end of the film and Quynh arriving), Angst, Booker's First Gay Experience, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Jealousy, LGBTQ (Let's Get Booker Tforgiven Quick), M/M, Missing Scene, Paris (City)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:22:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27110398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/17826/pseuds/17826
Summary: "What's your name?" the man asked in Arabic, eyes bright with curiosity at hearing his language so far from home.Sebastien took the proffered hand and shook it, lingering a little too long. "Nicolò," he said calmly.When faced with 100 years and no one to share it with, Booker does what anyone would: he runs home then pretends he hasn't.
Relationships: Booker | Sebastien le Livre/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 20





	walk into walls and lay awake

**Author's Note:**

> trigger warning : there are explicit discussions of suicide in this , and its also from the pov of a notoriously depressed character so skirts close to suicidal ideation a couple times . please use ur discretion and do not read if anything like that might be hard for u
> 
> title from serpentine prison by matt beringer

It was a very dimly lit bar, in his defence. And he'd had, even by his own standards, a whole fucking lot to drink. Not that he felt particularly drunk, but he had enough practice in the last 200 years to tell when his judgement was slipping, and right now it hadn't so much slipped as dived headfirst off a cliff (and wasn't that a bitter thought). But there was some resemblance.

"What's your name?" Asked the boy. Well - man, but he was at a glance in his mid 30s, therefore born in that far-off fictional decade of the 1980s sometime. Booker remembered the calendar on the wall the day his first son had been born, February 1st 1799, so - boy. The boy's eyes were dark, almost black, and alight with a joyous curiosity at hearing undoubtedly outdated Arabic from this white man's tongue. The light wasn't quite right, more of a twinkle than a sparkle, but it was close enough, and (like he'd reasoned) the bar was dimly lit anyway. Can't expect him to match those standards. "What is your name?" The boy repeated, slower this time, checking he understood.

"It's old-fashioned, you wouldn't like it," Sebastien said. "Makes me seen like an old man." He let the warmth of the rum snake back up his throat and out into the smooth words. He kicked out the bar stool next to his own and let his legs spread a little wider to accomodate the boy as he sat down.

"You're not old," the boy said, shifting the stool a little closer and leaning in under the pretext of being heard over the other chattering patrons. "We can't have more than five years difference and I am still as lively as the day I became a man." The eye contact was sustained just long enough to let Sebastien know just how this boy measured the moment he'd become a man, and how lively he'd been doing it. Again, he couldn't quite live up to the high standards of linguistic pretention Sebastien was looking for, but he wasn't bad and at least had the benefit of comparison to all the scrapingly nasal modern French filling rest of the room. (This was his home city. He'd never get used to it.)

"I think I'm a little older than I look," Sebastien said with a fair stab at a laugh.

"Then you carry it well, old man," the boy said quickly, smile wide and unfaltering. Sebastien couldn't honestly say he'd ever understood the appeal of men, preferring the occasional company of women or - even better - no one at all, but even he could admit this boy had charm. This were worse targets he could have picked. His hair was too light by half, none of the inky depth to his curls, but his beard seemed a fair forgery and his slim shoulders had an appeal all their own. He stuck out a hand to shake and it was just barely too small. "I'm Yacoub but the Europeans call me Jake."

Well, if that wasn't a sign, what was? Sebastien took his hand and shook it, lingering slightly longer than was friendly. "Nicolò."

"Peace be with you, Nicolò," Yacoub said, though his voice promised nothing of the sort. Their thighs knocked together as a group of friends jostled past and Yacoub's breath ghosted against his ear. "Do you want to tell me where you learnt my mother tongue or shall I pull it out of you later?"

Sebastien put a hand on his arm and revelled in the feeling of the boy jumping slightly. "Why wait until later?"

Half an hour found them in a sharply unfamiliar neighborhood that could have been any other street of limestone, but of course had to be this one. Sebastien was trying his best to focus on the curdling arousal in his belly rather than the ache in his knees, but when Yacoub came with a groan - "Nicolò, oh shit, Nico-" any faltering interest in Sebastien's dick died. He winced as the fingers in his hair tightened and swallowed dutifully, the taste not as bad as he was expecting. Yacoub's thighs where shaking under his hands so he helped him down onto the bed then sat back and wiped his lips, looking around as the boy gulped himself back to the world of the living. It was a cosy apartment, nothing like his own blank walls, his teetering piles of books and empty bottles. There were scratches on the furniture (evidence of a young cat) and a pile of unfolded washing hastily shoved behind the door, beyond which some distant housemate was clattering about. The stone floor was unusual for this type of building, and cold, but there was a thick rug covering most of it. It was a home.

"Hey, Nico, hey," a touch to his cheek brought him back to the room and he looked up to see Yacoub leaning off the mattress. "Come up here, we're not done yet..."

"Actually, I think we are," he said quietly, but kissed him anyway and let his hands find the problem on their own. The kiss broke apart the second they did.

"Oh, shit, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to-" Yacoub's hands flew up to protest his innocence and Sebastien caught them, held them gently.

"You didn't, you did nothing wrong, this just..." He looked for an excuse, stuck on some gross joke about being hardened everywhere except the place that mattered. "This happens sometimes."

Something dawned in Yacoub's eyes and he opened his mouth, closed it, nodded. He said something in Arabic Sebastien didn't understand, then repeated himself in French, "antidepressants, right?"

In a way, he wasn't wrong, though Sebastien had long since forgotten what came first, the medication or the ailment. "Something like that."

"Don't worry about it man, we can still... Did you enjoy yourself?"

Sebastien switched back to Arabic, trying his best to sound warm and kind and Italian. "Of course, habibi, of course I did." Then he kissed him because he could think of nothing else to say.

"You are a true gentleman," Yacoub said against his lips and they kissed without purpose for a few moments, quiet and slow. When they broke apart, the clock chimed two am and Yacoub hooked a finger into the neck of his t-shirt. "Tell me, Nico, do you want to stay the night? I'm a cuddler if you are."

Sebastien considered the question. The metro was still running for 15 minutes more, he could make it if he left now, and his apartment would be empty and familiar. It wasn't too late either, he could go find another bar, look for an Italian with grey-blue eyes and see if that felt any closer. But Nicky and Joe shared a bed everywhere he'd ever seen them sleep and it wouldn't be a convincing mimicry if he bailed now. "I'm a cuddler," he said, and let Yacoub pull his clothes off.

When they'd cleaned their teeth and settled under the covers, Yacoub's head laid on his chest and yawning, Sebastien tried to ignore the city beyond the window with its wailing sirens and whining mopeds. (To convincingly forge a coin, you had to make the metal believe it had lived through the things a real coin had.) He shut out the rattling of the central heating and the everpresent smell of petrol that haunted the modern world and pictured himself in Constantinople, his tongue formed by Zeneize and his heart tied to the man lying ear to his heart. He closed his eyes to the orange glow of streetlights and instead settled into the first marital bed of a thousand they would share across the years, across the world, in countries that didn't yet exist and never to be alone. Maybe even in Paris one day.

"I can hear you thinking, Nicolò," said the boy, voice reverberating against his ribs and dull with the late hour. "Tell me what it is or neither of us will be able to sleep."

For a second, he entertained the thought of actually doing it. He opened his mouth (Yacoub must have felt him inhale) then he let it go. He opened his eyes and it was still 2020, there was still an electric alarm clock on the bedside table, he was still Sebastien le Livre. "It's nothing, just... You know, same old shit. It's nothing."

"Some guy break your heart, huh?"

"No," Sebastien tried to smile. "It was my fault." When he glanced down, Yacoub's eyes were closer than he expected and full of warm understanding. He looked away quick.

"Well, whatever it was, I'm sure you don't deserve as much punishment as you think you do," Yacoub said and pressed a kiss to his collarbone. "Mental health shit will do that to you."

Sebastien smiled again, glanced at him without really seeing. "I assure you, I do."

"Will it help if you tell me?"

Would it? He wasn't going to, obviously, but would it help if he did? He couldn't remember the last time he'd answered a question honestly. London, probably, or Goussainville. Nile had that effect. But he'd been silent too long. He squeezed Yacoub's shoulder. "Tell me something of yours."

"Okay, well, uh..." Yacoub shifted off his chest and laid next to him, both on their backs looking up at the ceiling where the chinks of light came through from the gaps in the blinds. "A guy did break my heart. Guillaume, about... Fuck, almost 8 months ago now. Pathetic, right? 8 months."

Sebastien kept silent and felt like a pillar of rock, ancient and inevitable.

"I still think about him every day. Or, like, not even just him, but the life we had together. We had friends I don't see anymore, I'd met his parents, I really liked his sister, she was so funny. She was in a wheelchair, cerebral palsy you know, so I pushed her around a lot at their cousin's wedding and she gave me all the family gossip, wit like a razor and twice as kind as she was cruel. Lucia, her name was - is. Guillaume and her were a lot alike." His voice didn't waver as he spoke, despite his obvious tiredness. "I haven't heard anything from her in a few months."

"You could call her."

Yacoub sighed. "Nah, I don't think I could. She was his, really. I miss her but..."

"Why did you and Guillaume break up?"

"We didn't, he killed himself. Overdose, police ruled it an accident, but everyone knows it was suicide." Yacoub's hand found his under the covers and trembled until their fingers twined together. "He was the type for that, y'know? Self destructive. It was beautiful to watch and hell to pick up afterwards. Well, more hell to not have to pick him up anymore, I suppose."

Sebastien swiped a thumb over his knuckles. "I'm sorry."

Yacoub looked at him. "You remind me of him. The same eyes. He was younger than you though, only by a little. This time next year, I'll be older than he ever got to be."

If Sebastien really was Nicky, he would have known what to say here, but he wasn't, so he didn't.

Yacoub laughed once, hollow and short. "Mood killer, I know, I'm sorry. I'm trying to look on the bright side, trying to learn from it. I'm spending more time with the people I love, telling them I love them more. My mom's getting sick of me calling all the time, I swear."

"She isn't," Sebastien promised, sure of it.

"She doesn't even know what's happened, I never told her about him," Yacoub continued, as if he hadn't heard. "None of my family knows I'm gay and if I somehow summon the courage to ever come out, I can't tell them about him because it's just too stereotypical. He really picked the wrong time to die, is the one thing I would say."

"People tend to do that," Sebastien agreed.

"I just wish..." Yacoub trailed off and Sebastien knew what he meant.

"Yeah, me too." He felt tight and sad, filled with sorrow for this kind stranger and for himself and yet with no idea how to fix any of it, his life a tectonic plate that had forgotten how to shift.

Yacoub let go of his hand to lay onto his side, fixing Sebastien with a gaze he could not meet. "And that's my sob story, so your turn now."

"Oh, no," Sebastien shook his head. "Not after that, you are a tough act to follow, too tough."

"I know, lucky me," Yacoub grinned. "First place in the sadness olympics, and my prize is that you tell me what's bothering you."

"Nothing's bothering me, I'm fine, I just..." Sebastien swallowed around the boulder in his throat. "I fucked up. Bad. Like, I hurt a friend in a way I can never fix kind of bad."

Yacoub nodded. "Why did you do it?"

Sebastien blinked, caught off-guard. "I was... I don't know, I thought I was helping but I trusted the wrong people and the timing was all off and I... Well, turns out they didn't want my help in the first place anyway. Not like that, at least."

"So you did it because you thought it was the right thing to do?"

"Yeah, I guess, at the time, but -"

"And these friends of yours, they what, they've kicked you out?"

"In a manner of speaking, but it's not forever, they just," Sebastien waved a leaden hand, blasé and absolutely faking it, "we all need a while to, y'know, let it blow over. It was bad, what I did, really bad."

"So they'll have you back eventually?" Yacoub was still watching him. He'd never met anyone who listened like this in all his years. If anyone was ever in danger of hearing too much...

"Yeah, eventually," Sebastien attempted a smile, "so I'm fine, it'll be fine therefore it is fine, really it is."

"Yeah, sure sounds like it is, especially since you keep repeating it. It really sounds fine."

That did surprise a laugh from Sebastien and he pressed a kiss to Yacoub's forehead, who kissed his cheek back, twice and again until he thawed into a slow embrace, Yacoub stretching up to wrap one arm around Sebastien's shoulders, cupping his face with the other hand. "I'm sorry," Sebastien whispered between Yacoub's lips.

"You don't have to be," Yacoub whispered back, then against his throat, "whatever it was, I forgive you."

Sebastien felt a hot tear slip down his cheek and onto Yacoub's fingers where they cradled his jaw. "You forgive me?" He asked, unable to stop himself.

"Always," Yacoub pressed kiss after kiss down the column of his throat, across his shoulders, over his chest; but his right hand stayed where it was, soft against Sebastien's cheek. It was unbearable, it was like being stabbed over and over, chiselled away until all that's left was dust. It would blow away in the wind and be at peace.

"My love, the kindest and truest heart I know," Sebastien recited, tears falling in earnest but he would not let them water his voice.

"Is that Italian?" Yacoub asked, pausing to look up at him.

"Kind of," Sebastien said, leaning down for a final kiss before the moment passed. He lingered and this time didn't try to imagine the night sounds of Malta around them. "I think I'll be able to sleep now," he lied.

"Good," Yacoub sighed, "because I have to get up for work in, like, 3 hours."

They rearranged themselves until they were just barely touching - comfortable enough to sleep but still sharing their warmth. "Where do you work?" Sebastien asked, wondering if they might share a taxi when the time comes.

"Apple store," Yacoub said through a yawn, already half asleep. "Genius bar."

The fucking 21st century, Sebastien thought to himself, a little exasperated and a little fond. "Sleep well, my genius." He said, again in Zeneize.

Yacoub made a vaguely affirmative sounding snuffle and then was dead to the world.

Sebastien waited half an hour just to watch, then quietly extracted himself and let himself out onto the fire escape. In the cold air, he pulled out his barely-used phone and called a number he'd never used before, one he hardly remembered putting in. It rang twelve times before going to voicemail, but at least that meant it was still connected.

"You have reached Nile Freeman's voicemail," the automated voice said, mispronouncing her surname, "please leave a message after the tone."

"I know you said a hundred years," he said without preamble, knowing the French-accented half-ancient Greek would give him away easily. "I know I did wrong and I know I deserve this, but I need help. I need to not be alone anymore, and you said we've been doing a shit job and I don't think this is helping me get better at it. Andy, I need to see you and if we only have a few decades left, I can't miss it. Joe, Nicky, Nile, you can send me away again after that, but I can't miss any more time with her." He looked up at the sky and there were no stars to be seen this far into the city. "I'm being eroded here. I can't bear it." He belatedly realised Nile wouldn't know their language yet, wouldn't understand any of this, then switched to English, feeling all the duller for it. "I'm in Paris. This isn't working. I'm in Paris, I don't know where you are." Across the street, the a convenience store was still open, a solitary cashier restacking the shelves in this dead hour. 24/7 fucking shopping in the 21st goddamn century. He tried again, his mother tongue this time but even that felt wrong now, even here, on the street where he was born. "I'm sorry, guys, I know you need time. But you're all I have." He hung up before he could lose his nerve then sat down on the chilly metal and barely felt it against his skin. (It could have been that building, the one with the convenience store, or even this one with the boy. But what does it matter now if you can't remember the house you grew up in?)

"Go fuck yourself," he said into the night, quietly, in case Yacoub had not been as deeply asleep as he seemed. He wanted to leave, but knew he'd be really pushing it if he left without saying goodbye now. He was just tired of being the worst person in the room, every time. He was sick to the stomach of being jealous of everyone (of Nicky and Joe, of Yacoub, of Guillaume). And now the early morning air was diffusing into his blood and he was sobering a little, the shame was returning, exacerbated by his stupid play last night. He wanted to shake the boy inside awake, tell him, my name isn't Nicky and I'm sorry about everything and please forgive me again. Mostly, he wanted that last part. (So fucking Catholic, said the Andy that lived in his head, and he couldn't help but smile at the towers of Notre Dame, just visible over the roofs. It has been 235 years since my last confession, he imagined, and even laughed.)

He sat on the fire escape until it started to snow, settling on the cobblestones below, then let himself back inside, sliding the window shut as quietly as he could. He examined the room for something to do until Yacoub woke again. There was a rubix cube (but that's too loud), some headphones (YouTube maybe?), a whole lot of Arabic books (to practise reading script) including the Qur'an. He even got so far with that idea as washing his hands and face in the bathroom sink before he caught eyes with his own reflection and knew he didn't have the guts. He went back into the bedroom and double checked, relieved to find no Bible as the onset of a hangover arrived in behind his temples. That old insomnia haunt it is, then, and he resigned himself to watching paint dry.

When he got back into the bed, Yacoub shifted and he was worried he might have woken him, but his breathing stayed slow and his eyes never opened, even as his hand found Sebastien's arm under the covers. His fingers were warm against Sebastien's chilled skin and he felt goosebumps rising involuntarily, rippling across him, this body a living being with its own reactions. He watched the hairs on his arm slowly lower as he acclimatised to Yacoub's heat and wondered who'd taught Yacoub to do that, to seek out others even when totally unconscious. He was fighting against his own urge to snatch his arm back even now but he took a deep breath and sculpted himself still. He would leave in a few hours, with the rising sun, and he'd never be able to see Yacoub again. Hell, he might even leave Paris, leave France, leave Europe. He hadn't been to South America in a few decades, he could find something to do there. Brush up his Spanish, learn a new way to cook, succumb to the exhaustion. Even as he weighed up the merits of Colombia versus Chile, he knew he wouldn't go. He'd told them he was in Paris. They weren't coming, they wouldn't call back, but he'd said it. An empty apartment in a busy city. A hundred years.

He wished he could sleep.

He laid down properly, making sure to keep his arm where it was under Yacoub's weightless fingers, and traced the shape of him in the half-light. His hairline (starting to recede), the curve of his nose (closer to Nicky's than Joe's really, but ultimately neither), the boney shoulder that was exposed by the thick blanket slipping down. There were dark rings under his eyes even in sleep and the shape of his beard wasn't quite symmetrical. He smelled like toothpaste and the last of a cheap aftershave and nothing like Joe (Sebastien didn't feel like Nicky either). He was a person and Sebastien tried, as hard as he could, to not be jealous for once.

**Author's Note:**

> so matt beringers new album is a witches kiss and it cursed me into a magic coma from which i could only awake if i wrote three something thousand words about booker's immediate choice to go to paris when faced with 100 years alone . this is not so much plot bunnies attacking me as it is introspection demons having my guts for garters .
> 
> the old guard is just ... it is just SO good to us isnt it ? in one ostensibly run-of-the-mill netflix adapted screenplay action flick , we have been handed the perfect canvas upon which to explore linguistics and morality and mortality and religion and depression and responsibility and forgiveness and family and love ... what we did to deserve this i'll never know but ms prince-bythewood i owe u a debt i could never repay
> 
> thanks 4 reading , any comments sustain my soul on a fundamental level x


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